


take heart, sweetheart, or I will take it from you

by Linesk



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Complete, Existential Crisis, Fluff, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, here's something soft to cut through all the angst I usually churn out, removing the LED trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:26:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24103591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linesk/pseuds/Linesk
Summary: Connor can feel the scrutiny of others like needles through his palms. He turns to the only person he truly trusts for help.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 9
Kudos: 156





	take heart, sweetheart, or I will take it from you

Green ash trees curve over the sidewalk as Connor pads along, relishing in the warm sunlight that kisses the crest of his forehead. It’s a beautiful spring day, all blue skies and crowded streets, made even better by the fact that he’ll be visiting Hank soon. He can’t help but grin in anticipation as he ducks into La Gloria Bakery – a small, locally owned place lined with racks and racks of fresh bread, pretzels, and all manner of confections decorated with bright icing. Connor’s own manufactured teeth seem to tingle at the thought of so much concentrated sugar, but he pushes the unsavory feeling to the back of his mind. This is a treat, a gift, a concession he will gladly make on occasion just to see the spark of joy in Hank’s blue eyes.

There are a couple of tables crammed into the small space, and a human couple is seated in the corner, a half-eaten canoli between them. Connor breezes past them and places his order – a few cinnamon pretzels, Hank’s preference – when he catches their glares from his peripheral vision.

“Why do they bother? Like, why buy food if you can’t even eat?” the woman asks, twirling her ponytail around a finger as she muses. She clearly doesn’t realize Connor can hear her, but he keeps his mouth shut, not wishing to incite some sort of unsavory confrontation.

“Dunno,” her partner grouses. His lips are set in a thin line, the pinched expression on his countenance radiating pure disgust. “Jesus, I can’t believe they’ve even taken over the bakeries. Is there anywhere left for real people?”

Connor does turn his head at _that_ , shooting a pointed glare to the stranger. The woman slaps his arm in a reprimand and gestures vaguely to the LED on his temple, pulsing a steady red.

“Look, you’ve pissed it off,” she hisses, though her voice is laced with amusement.

Almost absently, Connor lifts a hand to trace the little circle of light embedded in the synthskin there, the most obvious indicator that no, he is not, strictly speaking, human. He has never given much thought to it – it’s just another facet of his person, another part of him. Now though, he feels frustration bubble up from his core, self-conscious of the very thing that seemingly broadcasts his emotions to _strangers_. All at once, it seems like an incredible invasion of privacy, a veritable mood ring that not only flags him as “other” but also serves as a source of ammunition, a window to his soul, as it were.

Feeling vulnerable and a little rattled, Connor is grateful when the clerk pushes a plain, white box toward his restive fingers. He transfers payment with a thought and is eager to shuffle back out to the refuge of the bustling crowd outside, ignoring the wry chuckles that follow after him. He _is_ pissed off, incredibly so, but doesn’t necessarily want the whole world to know about it.

Pinging the time, his frown deepens. He isn’t supposed to meet Hank for another hour, but fueled by rage and the distinctive bite of loneliness, he orders a cab for the place that feels more like a home to him than even his own apartment.

+++

He’s so lost in the swirling torrent of his own thoughts that Connor almost forgets to take the box of pretzels out with him as he exits the cab. He hurries toward the front door and knocks. Sumo immediately begins barking and shuffling from the other side, but after a few impatient moments, there is no sign of Hank. With a groan, Connor balances the box in one palm and retrieves a key ring from his pocket. With a few deft flicks of his wrist, he unlocks the door and lets himself inside.

The living room is mostly clean, save for the remains of last night’s Chinese take-out. Connor glares at the little box as unhelpful information panels cloud his vision with truly absurd sodium levels. He clears the panels and sets down his offering of soft pretzels. He can hear the shower running from down the hall, which explains why Hank didn’t answer the door. With little concern for human conceptions of privacy, or even the poor man’s mental health, Connor walks over to the bathroom and yells through the shut door: “Hank! Could you come out?”

There’s a loud bang from within, likely a shampoo bottle falling into the tub, followed by a string of hoarse curses. Connor hears the tinny slide of the shower curtain rungs grinding against the rusted-up rod as they’re jerked harshly to the side. A few moments later, the door is snapped open, bringing him nose-to-nose with the lieutenant.

He’s furious, of course, his teeth bared like a wolverine. Connor tries not to focus _too_ hard on the fact that Hank is standing there with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, the cloth only kept together by his clenched fist. His hair is dripping; Connor tracks the movement of one such droplet as it slides down a strand of silver hair and falls into the hollow of Hank’s collarbone. The desire to lick it away is strong enough that Connor has to steel himself; these are not appropriate thoughts to be having about a friend.

“What the _fuck_ -“ Hank growls. “How the hell did you get in here?”

“With the house key you gave me,” Connor deadpans, not missing a beat.

As expected, this earns him a tortured groan. Hank scrubs his free down his face, peering at Connor over his palm like he’s a Jehovah’s witness who dropped by just as dinner was being served.

“What time is it?”

“4:13PM,” Connor recites. He’s using the inflection that he knows gets under Hank’s skin, feeling a little combative after the bakery incident. It’s a detached sort of voice, one that really emphasizes the fact that he is, underneath it all, a machine. “I decided to drop by a little early.”

“Ugh, you sound like Alexa,” the other man grouses, predictably.

“Who is Alexa?”

“Shut up and go sit down, smartass. At least let me put some fucking clothes on.”

Connor does as he is told (for once) and steps away. He gives Sumo a few appreciative scritches behind the ear as he passes before collapsing backward into the well-worn couch cushions. He watches the retreating plane of Hank’s back as he ambles to his bedroom, fixating on the ridges of his shoulderblades, the myriad of scars. He wants to map the topography of that back with his tongue, wants to feel the different textures of pockmarked skin with his fingertips. He wonders if Hank would be sensitive under his searching touch, if the flesh would jump at his ministrations. It’s a stirring thought, in more ways than one.

The gruff, beautiful, infuriating man disappears into his bedroom and Connor thinks, not for the first time, that being in love is a miserable affair.

When Hank reemerges a few minutes later, it’s clear that he dressed in a hurry. He’s still barefoot, wearing only faded jeans and a black tank top, one that emphasizes his chest and leaves his upper arms tantalizingly bare. They’re soft, but Connor knows of the strength beneath the softness, a dichotomy that tortures him on a daily basis.

“You’ve gotta stop sneaking up on me like that,” Hank grumbles before dropping into the other end of the couch. “You almost killed me.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Connor quips.

“Whatever. So, is there any particular reason you tried to put me in an early grave?”

It’s a common enough expression, but even the theoretical thought of Hank’s grave sends an icewater pang of grief right down Connor’s spine. Hank’s eyes flicker up to his LED, that damned, stupid light, and his brows draw together in concern.

“Hey, I was just kidding, it’s just a thing people say-“

Connor is suddenly furious. Why should his emotions always be on display? Humans have the incredible privilege of hiding, of slipping under a mask, all alone with their thoughts. Why should he always be laid bare, always pinned like a butterfly beneath their scrutiny? He’s consumed with the irrational desire to unload these ugly, gnarled emotions on Hank, to shout at him and shake him until he’s as broken as Connor feels. What he blurts instead is: “I’m going to remove my LED.”

Hank draws back in clear confusion. He cards fingers through his damp hair, and even in his torn-up state, Connor has the presence of mind to appreciate the slicked-back look. ‘Dashing’ is the word that glitters at the fringe of his consciousness, and Connor deflates a bit.

“Ok,” Hank says. “Why?”

Connor’s hands ball into fists on his knees without his direct input. It’s a maddening side-effect of deviancy; he no longer has uninhibited control of his every action.

“I went to the bakery today,” Connor begins by way of explanation. He nods to the white box perched on the oak table, still untouched. “Some of the customers expressed… _distaste_ at my presence.”

At this Hank draws up like a pufferfish, the glint of murder in his eyes, as though he has half a mind to track these people down and introduce them to his fists. Still, he says nothing, silently bidding Connor to continue.

“They knew their comments upset me because of my LED. I just want my thoughts to be my own.”

He’s tense now, sliced open and exposed, with no outlet for the frustration, a part of him hoping that Hank has the answer, as he oftentimes does.

“That makes sense,” the man rumbles. “I think I’d feel the same way.”

“Will you help me?”

The question escapes his lips, again, without him really meaning it to. But when he turns to face the lieutenant, Hank is regarding him with a delicate expression, as though he’s something fragile, something precious.

“Yeah,” he answers after a long moment. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is.”

+++

Connor winds up in one of the dining-area chairs, sitting ramrod straight as Hank hovers uncertainly around him.

“So uh, what’s the best way to do this?”

“You should be able to easily pry it out with a flathead screwdriver,” Connor hears himself say. He feels disconnected from reality, like he’s watching the scene play out in third person.

“Right. Ok.”

Hank turns and shuffles around in one of his many “catch-all” drawers before eventually drawing out a screwdriver. He holds it up with a victorious quirk of his brow, which Connor finds hopelessly adorable, a heavy, complicated weight settling low in his torso like a lead ball.

When the lieutenant is back at his side, he lifts a hand and pauses.

“You’re sure about this?”

“Yes,” Connor answers immediately.

Not a second later, calloused fingertips are tracing the little circle, and Connor closes his eyes, relishing the sensation. It’s such a careful, hesitant touch, but the effect it has on him is enormous in scope. Hank flattens his palm just above his target, a warm, welcome weight that centers Connor, keeps him grounded, and then there’s the blunt edge of the screwdriver and a very slight pressure.

“So I just-“ Hank digs the edge in a little deeper, and Connor senses when the blunt metal catches on the rim of the LED.

“Yeah-“ he affirms, answering the disjointed question. Hank is so close now, bent forward, so close and focused on the task that Connor can feel each hot puff of breath against his cheek. Unwittingly, he bites down hard on his bottom lip, trying to focus on literally anything else, and failing miserably.

With a deft flick of his wrist, the LED pops out and falls to the floor below with a muted _cling_. The entire conclusion is rather anti-climactic, given the churning emotions that led up to this moment. Connor opens his eyes in time to see Hank bend over to retrieve the now-dark metal band. He holds it up and squints through its center to look at Connor, like how one might peer through a keyhole.

“Huh,” he huffs out. “Well, there ya go.”

He lowers his arm and lets the disconnected little device lay flat in his palm. Connor draws his fingers up to poke at the now smooth skin at his temple.

“You okay?” Hank questions.

He realizes, with blissful clarity, that he _is_ okay. It’s a rebirth, retribution, this new layer of freedom grafted over his already difficult existence. Connor takes a steadying breath, and grins.

“Yeah. Thank you.”

Hank shrugs off the overt gratitude and resumes his careful examination of the dormant metal ring.

“So, what’re you gonna do with it?”

“The LED? You can just throw it away.”

Hank freezes, shoulders drawing up, so suddenly tense that Connor may have just as well smacked him across the mouth.

“ _What!?_ You can’t just – throw it away.”

Connor cants his head. Hank is really getting worked up over this, pupils blown wide, forehead crumpled with disbelief.

“It no longer serves a purpose,” Connor says slowly. “Why _wouldn’t_ I throw it away?”

Hank closes the dark circle in his palm as if to shield it from Connor’s apparent stupidity.

“Well, I mean, it’s a part of you.”

Color is creeping into his cheeks, and he refuses to meet Connor’s gaze. The android’s eyes widen slightly in intrigue. He registers that Hank’s heartrate has picked up considerably, and there’s a guarded, far-away quality to his averted gaze.

It occurs to him that maybe, just _maybe_ , his feelings aren’t so one-sided. That little shrapnel of hope bolsters his courage, makes him reckless.

“You can keep it, if you want,” Connor murmurs. The lieutenant’s eyes _do_ snap up at that, his lips parting in surprise.

“Oh. Uh, if you’re sure.”

Connor beams at him, the same toothy grin that Hank often complains makes him look like a children’s TV host, but he can’t help it; he’s so full of affection that his useless facial mechanisms won’t cooperate.

Hank unfurls his hand and plucks up the LED, pursing his lips in consideration.

“Maybe I’ll put it on a chain, wear it like a necklace,” he comments offhandedly. Connor considers this, the implications of Hank walking around day-in, day-out, with a little piece of himself resting right over his heart. The warmth that floods him at such a thought is nearly debilitating, and it is, perhaps, the catalyst for what happens next.

“I love you,” he says, matter-of-fact. It rolls off his tongue in an almost clinical matter, as if he were reciting any other fact, like the temperature outside or the phase of the moon. He doesn’t realize what he’s done until a few seconds later, when Hank is gaping at him with wide eyes and an expression that could only be categorized as unadulterated terror.

“What.” Hank’s voice is thin and creaky, like wind battering a neglected old shutter.

 _Well_ , Connor thinks, _there’s no going back now._

“I love you,” he repeats, something like pleading seeping into his tone. It feels like they’re in a vacuum, like all the air has been sucked out of the house and time has spun out, leaving them trapped in some odd, liminal space.

“As-as a friend?” Hank sputters, his voice climbing a couple octaves.

Connor can’t help but roll his eyes. A part of him wishes there were some sort of factory reset; the prospect of shedding these pesky emotions and returning to a state of unaffected bliss seeming more and more appealing by the minute.

“No. I’m in love with you. I know that must be inconvenient-“

Hank barks out a delirious laugh.

“-but I guess I couldn’t hold it back anymore.”

When Hank says nothing, just continues to gape at him, frozen still as a gargoyle, anxiety threads through Connor’s cobalt veins and seizes his heart in its sharp claws. He breaks their gaze with a jerk of his head, fingers crooking uselessly against the wooden tabletop. He hates this, the exposure, the tension charging the air between them. He feels like an idiot, slicing himself open, leaving himself vulnerable. It’s almost comical; _he’s_ supposed to be the one in control; he was built to be a negotiator, to collect reactions and emotions and rearrange them into the outcome he desires, meanwhile maintaining a perfect, cool façade. This is all just ridiculous, faulty programming be damned.

Hank must see the flicker of dread cross his countenance, because he springs into action, crowding Connor’s personal space once more. He drops an awkward hand to his shoulder.

“Look, you just surprised me, is all,” he chokes out. “Connor, look at me.”

Grudgingly, the android complies. Hank’s expression is achingly soft as he says, “I love you too. Have for a while.”

_Oh._

Connor blinks up at him, dazed and completely out of his depth, but deeply, _deeply_ happy. He dares to lift a hand to cup Hank’s jaw and is delighted when the man doesn’t pull away. He runs a thumb over the coarse beard there, feeling the warmth of living skin seep into his palm. Hank’s breath hitches at the gentle touch, and Connor’s chest swells with pride that he can have such an effect on the typically guarded lieutenant.

For once, his next move is as easy as a preconstruction, the next step so obvious that he doesn’t even bother to test the percentage of success. Connor leans forward and presses his lips against Hank’s own, and the intimacy of such a simple act is intoxicating. Hank responds immediately, draws up a big hand to cup the base of his skull, and pulls away for only a fraction of a second before diving back in at an angle, deepening their contact. It should just be the presence of pressure, another objective point of stimulation, but every synapse in Connor’s body erupts, effectively silencing his endless thoughts and leaving him with the sensation of floating. What the fuck is gravity, when the man he loves is kissing him deeply, holding his head like he’s the star in some terrible romance film? It’s almost like a retrieval, like taking back something which should have been part of his essential core from the onset. He lost a piece of himself and was given back so much more.

When they pull away to catch their breath an indeterminate amount of time later, Hank’s brows are crinkled with adoration and Connor feels so hopelessly smitten that he wants to track Kamski down and demand answers for the suffocating warmth blooming in his chest that is equal parts painful as pleasurable. He thinks he might combust on the spot, just burn up until he’s nothing more than a sad, smoking heap of melted metal and silicone.

“Wow,” he says on an exhale.

“Yeah,” Hank agrees, “ _Wow_.”

Connor lets his hand skirt down Hank’s neck, delighted that he can have this now, whereas before every fleeting touch felt like a theft of his person.

A flash of mischief skitters across his mind, then.

“Hank?”

“Hm?”

“Could you remove something else for me?”

The man draws back a bit, already suspicious, eyes flitting back and forth as he scans Connor’s form, evidently trying to decipher another component than would need to be disposed of.

“I guess? What is it?”

“My clothes,” Connor answers beatifically.

The absolute riot of expressions that cross Hank’s face at _that_ is so endearing that Connor has to throw his head back and laugh, but this joyous, disbelieving outpouring is interrupted when Hank finally slams his old LED on the table and hoists him up with a surprising degree of strength, pulling him into a kiss that is deeper, hungrier, with teeth and tongue and _God_ this night could not get any better.

“I could help with that,” the lieutenant rumbles against his lips. And Connor adjusts his prior thought, awash with the knowledge that the night could, and _would_ , get much, much better.


End file.
